


GODSPEED

by lieu42



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batfamily Angst (DCU), Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Domestic, Domestic Batfamily (DCU), Everyone Needs A Hug, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Multi, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Whump, everyone is british because i am, jayroy if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lieu42/pseuds/lieu42
Summary: Bruce Wayne is gone, and everyone is left to pick up the pieces.Dick Grayson refuses to believe Bruce would leave them. Tim Drake keeps blacking out, and doesn’t know what happens in the gaps. Jason Todd thinks he knows the truth, but maybe he’s just pessimistic. The family that Damian Wayne has only just begun to trust is falling apart at the seams. Clark Kent, impossibly, has also disappeared, leaving behind a fractured marriage and Conner Kent, who isn’t sure he wants to fly anymore. An old hookup knows far too much about Bruce, but is he telling the truth? And -- no matter how hard any of them look for him -- does Bruce want to be found?
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Original Male Character(s), Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Roy Harper/Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	GODSPEED

**GOTHAM CITY CENTRAL,** 0700 HOURS

Light. 

Flashing in Tim’s face, a chaotic symphony of white that made every pore of his body feel exposed. He tried to wet his bottom lip but his tongue was dry in a sweaty, stale way. He wondered if everyone else could see him swaying. There was a lightness in his head, like he was about to float away and crash to the ground all at once. If it wasn’t for the crush of people on all sides, maybe he would’ve fallen to his knees and clutched at the safety of the ground. He closed his eyes and inhaled, slowly. Exhaled. Hitched a white-toothed smile on his face that Bruce would be proud of, and wished he was anywhere other than here.

‘Open for questions,’ he said, in a voice that wasn’t his own.

Another cacophony of clicks and flashes. Tim clenched his fists and dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palms. There was a single, blissful moment of silence, and then a million questions, the same question, all at once.

‘Is Bruce Wayne dead?’

Tim crumpled, slowly, and there was wet tarmac next to his face, and he breathed in and out and blood poured from his nose and his ears and his mouth. There was a kind of singing, like hymns in church, and Bruce was saying something. Tim tried to listen in, but maybe it wasn’t words, just sounds that his head was making up. And Bruce wasn’t there at all, Bruce was somewhere else, Bruce’s car was on fire and his face was melting and Tim was watching him fade away.

A different Tim Drake, one that was standing up straight and still holding that tight, painful smile, said, ‘No, he’s not dead.’

‘Why isn’t he here to give a statement?’ said a reporter, right in Tim’s ear, and he tried not to wince in a way that was visible.

‘He’s very busy,’ said Tim. Then, louder, when no one else seemed to have heard him over the noise, ‘He’s very busy!’

‘When will he be able to--’

‘He’s very busy,’ said Tim, and he was stumbling backwards, and someone had his arm, and then there was cool metal under his hands, he --

A door slam. He was sitting on a leather seat, and it was warmer in here. In a car. Alfred’s car. Alfred had come to rescue him. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a long moment. Thank  _ fuck _ for blacked-out back windows. He slipped off his jacket, hugging his arms around his waist and bending over. He hadn’t realised how much he was sweating.

From the front of the car, Alfred said, ‘Is everything alright, Master Timothy?’

Tim rested his face on his knees and put his hands on the back of his head. ‘I am really quite stressed,’ he said. He didn’t say  _ I feel like I’m going to throw up,  _ but nonetheless Alfred seemed to understand.

‘I just wish he’d come back,’ Tim said, looking up at the back of Alfred’s head. The car was moving, now, which made him feel sicker. He caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror and winced. He was too pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, his nose and cheeks were reddish in a way that made him look like he was about to cry. He needed a haircut, badly. He pulled his fingers down his cheeks and continued, ‘He can’t just fucking leave us alone like this. God, I looked like -- I’m going to be all over the news and I looked like shit. Everyone’s going to know something’s up. I looked like --’

‘You looked like a boy whose father has disappeared,’ interrupted Alfred, ‘which is essentially what you are. The media can sense when they’re pushing too far, Timothy. I expect they will have the sense to back off.’

‘He’s dead,’ said Tim, voice cracking. He didn’t realise he was crying until he heard his breathing, ragged and gasping, echoed back at him like it belonged to someone else.

‘I have faith that Master Bruce is  _ not  _ dead.’ Alfred’s voice was strained.

‘He’s dead or he doesn’t care! How could he -- He’s left us alone like this! Why would he do that? Either he doesn’t care or he’s fucking dead!’

They drove in silence. Tim listened to the sound of his own breathing and wondered what Alfred must be thinking of him. He was such a fucking shambles. There was a kind of throbbing sound in his head, and he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Alfred wasn’t tuned into his normal classical music radio station, and the silence was thick and choking. Or maybe there was music playing, Tim couldn’t decide. Only quietly, at least. He felt like his head was underwater, and he kept glancing at Alfred to make sure Alfred hadn’t said something. Time was passing in an odd way, seeming to only touch on every other second. Tim wasn’t sure what was happening in the gaps. This would probably be quite terrifying if his brain was alert enough to acknowledge it.

Alfred said, ‘Do you need me to stop the car, Tim?’

A second passed. Tim didn’t reply quick enough, and became unsure whether Alfred had really spoken in the first place.

‘Sorry?’ he asked.

Alfred’s eyes met him in the rearview mirror. The car had slowed right down, Tim noticed.

‘Do you need to stop?’

‘No,’ said Tim, about as decisively as he could manage. ‘No, can we -- Can we just -- I want to go home.’

His voice sounded distant, high, like a child’s.

Alfred said, ‘If you’re sick in my car, I’m going to be quite annoyed with you, Tim.’

‘I won’t be,’ said Tim, but it was a plea more than a promise.

  
  


**GOTHAM CITY OUTSKIRTS,** 0847 HOURS

It had rained in the night, and everything was slippery. Jason’s hand slid as he grabbed for the window ledge, and came back slick with wet. He managed to get a better hold with his other hand, trying not to wince at how grimy the ledge felt. Its white paint was peeling and cracking, and smelled like mould. He pushed down with his palms and lifted himself up, reaching for the top of the window and lowering himself through the window legs first. The floor was lower than he’d remembered, and he hit it weird and jarred his knees.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here, but it was familiar anyway. A small, badly lit bathroom, smelling sweetly of piss and mould, something dirty between the tiles. His boots left muddy prints as he walked over to the sink and gripped the edge. The mirror was dirty, but not dirty enough to ignore his reflection: his hair wet from the rain, stringy, his eyes pale. He needed a shave.

He exhaled and reached in his jacket for a cigarette. He didn’t remember buying the packet, but he might as well smoke them now he had them.

Really he should quit. He’d been trying to forever.

Still, it was a healthier coping mechanism than just fucking taking off and leaving everyone else to pick up the pieces. He thought,  _ if it’d been me gone they wouldn’t have been up all night.  _ Then he hated himself for being a self-pitying bastard. He leaned out the window, where rain was coming in sideways, and blew smoke at the Gotham skyline. The familiar smell of nicotine calmed him down, and he suddenly felt uncomfortably aware of his body.

He’d slept funny -- actually he couldn’t really remember where he’d slept last night, if at all -- and his neck was all tense, muscles screaming every time he moved his head. He’d cut his fingernails too short and his fingertips were sore. The damp was getting in as well, and the whole thing resulted in him feeling like his skin was slightly too small, like he’d swelled up a half inch or something and nothing fit right.

He finished the cigarette and lit up another before he realised what he was doing. He smoked that too, then another. He lit up one more and thought about how Bruce wasn’t here to tell him he smelled awful and that he had to wash that jacket of his before it grew legs and walked off.

He tried to tap a little deeper, untangle what he was really thinking about Bruce, but the thought had evaporated into the fog of his brain. Bruce was coming back, Jason reasoned. He’d probably wait until everyone had accepted he was gone forever, and then he’d be back and it’d be like he never left. In a way, it made Jason respect the old man a little more. He had some balls to pull a stunt like this.

The rest of the flat wasn’t in any better a state than the bathroom. It was one big room, a sofa and a small television and a kitchen unit at the back and a couple of black bin bags slumped in the corners. The whole place stank of weed. Roy was sprawled on the sofa, and he nodded at Jason when he came in.

The television was on, blaring a monotone into the room. Jason turned his back on it, going over to the sink and turning on the tap. A small trickle of warmish, reddish water ran out. Jason rubbed it through his hair and over his face, then hopped over the back of the sofa to sit with Roy.

‘Timmy looks like shit,’ he said, looking at the short clip they were playing on repeat on the television.

‘He looks two seconds from passing out,’ Roy agreed. Then, ‘Can you take your bloody boots off if you’re gonna put your feet on the sofa?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Jason, swatting Roy away. 

‘They all sleeping at all at the manor?’

‘No,’ said Jason. Then, before Roy could ask, ‘I’m not going over there.’

Roy blew air out of his nostrils. ‘Cade’s here, by the way.’

‘Cade?’ said Jason. He followed Roy’s eyeline to see someone standing in the doorway of what Jason had assumed was a cupboard, but turned out to be a small bedroom. A young man -- probably a few years older than Jason, but categorised as young -- wearing tracksuit bottoms and a greyish t-shirt.

‘You know Cade,’ said Roy. ‘He sells you guns. Sometimes.’

‘Huh,’ said Jason. He stared at Cade, who shrank. ‘Hi, Cade.’

‘Hi, Red Hood,’ said Cade, nervously.

‘Dickhead,’ said Jason, then turned to Roy. ‘Why’d you have kids like him around?’

‘You’re never here,’ said Roy, giving Jason a lazy grin. ‘I get lonely.’

‘Well, I’m gonna be here for a couple days,’ said Jason. ‘You could’ve picked a nicer flat, though.’

‘No, you’re going home,’ said Roy. To Cade, he said, ‘Jason’s not staying.’

‘Why?’ said Cade, shifting on his feet and looking at the ground. ‘I’ll -- I can leave, it’s fine.’

‘Jay’s dad’s fucked off and he’s going home to make sure his family’s all alright,’ said Roy, looking closely at Jason. ‘ _ Aren’t _ you?’

‘That’s crazy,’ said Cade, blinking at Roy. ‘Did you hear -- D’you hear Bruce Wayne’s gone too? They’re saying he’s dead. This car crashed in the city centre and they think he was in it. No one else’s come forward to say who the driver was. I reckon-- ’ He stopped talking as quickly as he’d started, still looking wide-eyed at Jason and Roy.

‘Don’t suppose you have any idea who was in that car,’ said Roy, flatly, looking at Jason.

‘No clue,’ Jason bit back. He zipped his jacket and stood up, wiping his boots on the carpet.

‘You make sure Tim gets some sleep, yeah?’ said Roy, rolling over to lie on his back and looking up at Jason.

‘I’m not going to the Manor, Roy. Last thing I need right now is Dick in my ear.’

‘Dick in your what?’ said Cade, choking out a nervous laugh. Jason thought about punching him.

‘It’s a weird sex thing,’ said Roy. ‘Love you, Jay.’

‘Dickhead,’ said Jason, fondly, and left.

  
  


**WAYNE MANOR** , 1109 HOURS

‘You look awful,’ said Jason. Tim had not noticed him standing there, and spun awkwardly, nearly falling over. They were on the back patio of the Manor, the glass doors of the dining room behind them. It was raining, still, but more drizzle than downpour.

‘Thanks,’ said Tim. ‘Have you been smoking?’

Jason exhaled. ‘Don’t bring it up in front of Dick.’

‘I won’t.’ Tim paused. ‘Are you coming inside? Dick’s in the kitchen, with Alfred. Damian’s -- around.’

‘Probably will,’ said Jason, looking out into the rain. ‘Are you seriously alright? Can I maybe suggest you take a nap?’

Tim wasn’t wearing any shoes, and the wet was seeping through his socks. 

‘Had one,’ he said. ‘For like two hours. I think. I sat down and when I woke up the clock was different. I feel a lot better now.’

‘I saw you on the news,’ said Jason. 

Tim grimaced. ‘Wish you hadn’t.’

‘You eaten anything?’

‘I will when I feel like I can keep it down.’

‘So it’s bad, then.’

Tim bit at his lip. ‘I think Dick’s stress is rubbing off on me. The whole house is a nightmare. Hopefully it’ll die down in a bit.’ He didn’t sound confident.

‘Maybe he’ll feel better if he shouts at me for a while,’ said Jason, looking through the glass to the Manor. ‘You want to watch?’

‘Your funeral.’

  
  


**WAYNE MANOR,** 1125 HOURS

‘He could be  _ dying  _ right now,’ said Dick, waving his empty coffee mug in the air. ‘He could be -- He could be already dead and we’re sitting around like this and--’

Jason, leaning against the counter, watched Dick pace around the kitchen. God, he would so much rather be with Roy in that shitty flat right now. Roy had just bought that new PlayStation as well, and he was probably playing with that Cade twat rather than Jason. All this, and there was no fucking mystery, no matter how much Dick acted like it. Bruce had taken off, because he was sick of Gotham. That’s all there was, and for some reason, Dick just could not see it.

‘We’ve contacted everyone we can, Master Dick,’ said Alfred. He was somehow still calm, standing perfectly still at the other end of the kitchen and polishing a wine glass. ‘Nobody seems to know anything. We can only assume Bruce has taken leave, and is safe.’

Dick’s face was reddened, his hair in loose waves falling into his eyes, and he was still talking like he hadn’t even heard Alfred. ‘What if -- What if one of the Arkham lunatics has got their hands on him! And we’re just sat here! We -- we just had fucking  _ elevenses _ ! What if someone -- What if he’s locked in the Joker’s basement or something and we’re just sitting here--’

‘Batman didn’t disappear,’ said Jason, picking dirt out from under his fingernails.

Dick stopped, blinked. ‘Jason, you -- What do you even mean by that?’

‘I mean,’ said Jason, drumming a hand on the counter, ‘that you’re looking at this the wrong way. It’s not  _ Batman  _ that’s gone off and left us here. It’s Bruce.’

Tim, sat at the breakfast bar, turned slowly to Dick. ‘Did you say all his shit was still left in the Cave?’

Dick swallowed hard. ‘I still think--’

‘Bruce doesn’t go out without at least  _ something  _ to tell us his location,’ said Jason, firmly. ‘Or to tell the League, or Alfred, or whatever. I know he spouts all the  _ I-work-alone  _ bullshit, but the fact is that he doesn’t. He’s smart. If he wanted us to find him he would’ve left us something, and he hasn’t.’

Jason watched Dick’s mouth, which was tightly closed, and the way Dick was taking little shallow breaths, and wondered if he should perhaps have found a softer way to phrase it all.

Then Dick spoke. ‘This is your fault anyway,’ he said, in a small, tight voice. ‘If you hadn’t crashed that fucking car the same morning he disappeared -- He’s been gone before and we covered it up, but now you managed to draw attention to the whole thing and the media is not gonna go away until they find out he’s gone!’

‘It wasn’t even Bruce’s fucking car!’ Jason felt heat flare up inside him and tried to push it down.

‘It might as well have been!’

‘Can’t you hire some fucking civilian to say they crashed the car? Just so everyone stops thinking it’s Bruce?’

‘Maybe if you wanted to take some responsibility, Jason--’

‘Don’t fucking  _ Jason  _ me! While you’ve been running around trying to convince yourself he’s in danger and you’ve got to save him, you could’ve --’

‘Like you’ve been doing anything to help!’

‘I fucking showed up, didn’t I? I didn’t want to!’

‘He’s your dad too, Jason!’

‘He’s --’ Jason inhaled, exhaled. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Dick watched him. ‘He’s my dad, yeah, but we’re both  _ adults  _ and the fact is -- If anyone else’s dad had gone off they’d just accept he was gone. Which Bruce is. He’s gone.’

‘He wants us to find him,’ said Dick, quieter. ‘He must’ve just hidden a clue. Jason, if you -- If you think for five seconds that Bruce would just leave us like this out of the blue, then you don’t know him at all.’

‘Nothing gets through to you, does it?’ said Jason, and he realised he was shouting. ‘Bruce is fucking gone! He’s left you! God, you might think that this family of all people is used to disappointments in life--’

‘He wouldn’t --’ Dick took in a long, shaky breath. ‘He wouldn’t leave Damian, at least. Or Alfred.’

‘Tim,’ said Alfred, suddenly, and Dick started. Alfred had his own kind of camouflage, listening silently at the edges of conversations.

‘Yeah, Tim too, I just meant --’ Dick looked over to where Tim was blinking, shaking his hair out of his eyes and gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles.

‘You alright, Timbers?’ Jason took a step towards him before Dick could.

‘Fuck,’ said Tim, rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘I think I just blacked out for a second. Do you guys hear a buzzing noise?’

The kitchen fell silent. Jason realised he could, in fact.

Alfred disappeared into the next room and returned with a phone.

‘Is this yours?’ he asked Tim, who nodded. ‘You have… several missed calls.’

He handed the phone to Tim, who winced at the light and handed it to Jason. Dick frowned at Jason, but Jason ignored him, scrolling through Tim’s notifications.

‘I think Conner wants you,’ he said.

‘Shit,’ said Tim. ‘I… Is he coming over? Can you tell him to come over?’

Jason managed to dredge up all eight digits of Tim’s passcode from somewhere in his brain, and started typing. ‘Don’t be sticking your tongue down his throat,’ he said, glancing over at Tim. ‘He doesn’t need whatever shitty fever you’ve picked up.’

‘It’s just stress,’ said Tim.

‘That’s probably worse,’ said Jason, then blinked at the screen. ‘He says he’s gonna be an hour and a quarter because trains are shit? Why can’t he just fly?’

‘So he’ll be here in an hour and a half, then,’ said Tim, and his voice was firm enough that Jason took a half step back. He noticed, belatedly, that while Alfred was still polishing glasses at the back of the room, Dick had gone.

  
  


**WAYNE MANOR,** 2047 HOURS

Selina knew that Bruce was gone, even without going inside the Manor. It just felt different. 

It was still raining, and her suit was puckering, sticking to her skin with a wet sheen. Her feet were numb inside her boots, and her fingers numb inside her gloves. Thunder blossomed on the horizon, and she felt at peace. This is what it was like, then. Without him.

Her feet touched lightly on the roof tiles, and she started to walk over to the other side, taking gentle dancer’s steps. There were faint voices coming from inside -- they’d probably left a door open, or a window. Silly of them, they’d let the rain in. Jason, maybe, talking? No, the accent wasn’t his. And he wouldn’t be here either; he hated family drama. He’d deal with this in his own way. Selina thought of him somewhere in downtown Gotham -- probably beating the shit out of some petty criminal, probably walking around with his hood up, probably swearing or spitting rain. She felt comforted. Jason was a stable object; he didn’t change. The rest of this family, not so much.

Then there was the sound of a heavy footstep, from the other side of the roof. Selina leapt onto the chimney, looking down to survey her pursuer.

Dick Grayson, shouting. ‘Cat!’

She took a moment to take him in. He was in jeans and some old polo shirt, hair turned curly and dripping in the rain, desperate blue eyes. Cheekbones, she thought. He reminded her of Bruce, this dashing movie-hero aspect of him, although he was more of a kid than Bruce had ever been.

She darted away, feeling the power in her legs, the moment before a jump.

He yelled again, ‘Cat! Wait!’

She didn’t see him slip, but she felt him fall. When she caught him, he smelled of Bruce’s aftershave and sea salt. They tangled for a second, his body warm, before Selina was on her feet again, bouncing like a boxer, ready for flight.

‘Cat, two seconds,’ Dick said, lifting his rain-streaked face. He got up, slowly. There was mud on his knees where he’d hit the ground, and Selina noticed he wasn’t even wearing shoes, only socks. The poor baby. And yet Bruce should have known.

‘I have to go, baby,’ she said, in a sweet, lilting tone.

It was clear he was desperate. ‘Cat, you -- I’ve asked everyone else. You must know where he is. Please, Cat, I--’

He swallowed and looked down at the ground. His feet were sinking a little into the soft mud.

‘Darling, Bruce hasn’t told me anything,’ Selina said. She reached out a hand to cup Dick’s cheek, and his face was cold against her gloved hand. How old was he now? Twenty-four, twenty-five? And to think he could still work himself into this kind of state. He hadn’t yet achieved the kind of calm distance an adult gets when they are destroyed. Or perhaps he just hadn’t quite hit breaking point.

She left him there, in the rain, and darted away into the shadows.

  
  


**WAYNE MANOR,** 0030 HOURS

‘Dick, mate, you’ve got to get some sleep,’ said Conner. Dick knew he meant well, and resented it anyway. Dick was meant to be the one who told the kids to go to bed. He was meant to be the strong one, the mature one.

‘Is Jon in bed?’ Dick asked, feeling more like himself for a minute. ‘It’s, like, ten o’clock.’

‘It’s gone midnight,’ said Conner, giving Dick a little smile that didn’t really extend to his eyes. ‘And I think he is. I don’t know where he’s gone. I thought he was with Damian.’

‘Are you guys going home? Your mum’s gonna worry--’

‘She’s not my mum,’ said Conner, tightly, and Dick mentally kicked himself. ‘And she knows we’re here.’

‘Has anyone seen  _ Damian  _ recently?’ said Tim. He was sat on the sofa, Conner’s arm around him, and Dick was pacing round the living room. Dick felt bad that Tim was awake. Even though he’d been sleeping most of the day, in short, fitful naps. He wished he’d talked to the reporters instead of Tim. Most of all, he wished he didn’t feel like he had to be Tim’s dad now as well as his brother.

‘He’s probably alright,’ said Conner, giving Tim’s shoulders a squeeze. ‘He probably just wants some space.’

‘Maybe that’s what Bruce wanted, too,’ said Tim. He was talking to Dick, watching him closely as he walked around the room. Dick didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Maybe he just needed a couple of days off. He’ll probably be back in a few days and we’ll be wishing we hadn’t worried so much--’

Dick spun round, the backs of his eyes pricking. ‘Then he would’ve left a note! I swear something awful’s happened to him and none of you will believe me!’

There was silence.

‘We’ll keep looking tomorrow, yeah?’ said Conner, awkwardly. ‘I really do think you’d feel a lot better if you got some sleep.’

‘Only if I wake up and the whole thing was a dream,’ said Dick, tightly.

‘It’s late,’ said Tim. ‘C’mon, Dick.’

Dick could feel his face heating up, and he turned away.

‘Has Jason gone home?’ said Conner, quietly, to Tim. ‘You could maybe--’

‘They were shouting earlier,’ said Tim, carefully, in a voice aimed at both Dick and Conner. ‘So it’s not a good idea. Everyone’s stressed. I think we should probably all go to bed, and we’ll see it a lot clearer in the morning.’

Dick hated how Tim was probably right.

‘Goodnight, then, guys,’ he said, quietly; keeping his voice measured, not letting it crack and betray him.

‘Night, Dick,’ said Tim, softly.

‘Goodnight,’ said Conner.

Dick got all the way up the stairs and into his ensuite bathroom before he started to cry. Big, helpless, silent sobs escaped his mouth, and his blurred reflection in the mirror looked like Bruce.

  
  


**GOTHAM CITY CENTRAL,** 0351 HOURS

Damian wrapped his cape tighter round his shoulders and stared down at the blue light of his phone. He switched tabs absent-mindedly, to his last messages with Jon.

_ at your house and your not here. u ok? _

I’m fine I just want space right now

_ are u coming back tonight _

Probably not. You should go to bed

_ are u with anyone _

Yeah, Jason’s here

_ ok cool goodnight then _

Goodnight

_ u gonna be here in the morning? _

Probably, I don’t know

_ dick seems kinda stressed so maybe try get back idk _

Ok I will

Goodnight again

_ ok yea see u in the morning _

He wasn’t with Jason; he’d been sitting on this bridge for hours. He was pressed up against the railing with his legs poking out beneath it, green boots dangling above the Gotham river, an inky oil-slick deep below. He’d watched two hours of Vine compilations until he was too tired to blow air out of his nostrils at the funny ones, and another hour of some animal documentary from 2004, in reassuringly low quality. He’d put the radio on so he could listen to the shipping forecast, but the forecaster’s Gotham accent reminded him too much of Bruce’s and he’d turned it off.

He thought about calling Jon, but knew he’d be asleep. He called Jason.

The phone rang twice, then Jason answered.

‘You alright?’ said Jason, voice soft and rough at once.

‘Is there anyone with you?’ said Damian, carefully.

‘Roy’s here,’ said Jason. There was a grunt, some other miscellaneous noises, and when Jason spoke again his voice sounded different, more echoing. ‘What’s up?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Bathroom,’ said Jason.

‘Don’t start smoking,’ said Damian, immediately.

‘I’m not,’ said Jason, but there was the edge of a laugh in his voice. Damian imagined him tucking the packet back in his trousers, and felt some kind of relieved familiarity.

‘What are you doing up, anyway?’ asked Jason, and Damian stiffened.

‘Can’t sleep,’ he said.

‘Where are you?’

‘Bridge,’ said Damian, copying Jason’s tone.

‘Don’t jump,’ said Jason, drily. ‘You going back to the manor?’

Damian paused, weighting Jason’s potential responses. ‘Where are you?’

‘No,’ said Jason. ‘Flat’s shitty. You’d be better off at the Manor.’

Damian exhaled. ‘Come on, Jason.’

‘Dick’s driving himself mad, buddy. You calm him down when you’re around.’

‘I don’t like it when he’s like this either.’

Jason drew in a breath. ‘I’m coming back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you over there.’

‘Don’t hang up on me,’ said Damian, suddenly.

There was a pause. Damian listened to Jason breathing.

‘Promise me you’re going to go back, yeah?’ said Jason. ‘Don’t get run over on your way home. We’ll -- I don’t know, we’ll sort something out about this tomorrow.’

‘It already  _ is _ tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow is after you get some sleep,’ said Jason, firmly. ‘You woke  _ me  _ up.’

‘You’ve got Roy,’ said Damian, almost as a plea. ‘I don’t have anyone.’

‘You can be there for Dick,’ said Jason. ‘At least go home. I do worry about you kicking round Gotham this late at night--’

‘Like fuck you do,’ said Damian, pleased.

There was a short pause. ‘Goodnight then, gremlin.’

‘Night,’ said Damian, and then the phone clicked and he was left in silence except for the cars going past behind him.

He hoped Bruce would come home soon.

**Author's Note:**

> angst go brrrr


End file.
